


Dangerous Ground

by tristesses



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Intrigue, Mirror Universe, Politics, Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knife in hand, Nyota Uhura waits for her contact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Ground

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on 6/23/2010 for the prompt "first date" at st_respect's Ship Wars.

One message, heavily encrypted and written in an ancient Terran language gone unspoken for the past several centuries. One message, bearing one cryptic phrase - _I will make myself known to you; be aware_ \- and this is what she's staking her life on? Foolishness, even suicide; but still she waits, the picture of a perfect communications officer, uniform tight and pressed, dagger gleaming at her side like the earpiece she always wears.

As she waits for the captain and his first officer to enter the bridge, her gaze skitters around her fellow officers - it would make sense for the Resistance to pair her with a crewman she works with closely, so there won't be suspicion when they meet behind closed doors. Or rather, there will only be mild suspicion, the kind that goes unremarked upon; the Empire is not an environment that fosters trust.

She can see three options. Pavel Chekov, as young as she was when she joined the Resistance, who was unusually eager to save the lives of others in the Narada attack. Or Hikaru Sulu - he took a Romulan sword for a fellow crewman, a wound that's left him with a jagged scar down his face and neck - another possibility; personal sacrifice of that sort is strange and uncommon.

Or her third option, as she is reminded when the doors slide open and he strides onto the bridge, the captain himself. So young, so headstrong, promoted so quickly; the Resistance members in Starfleet Headquarters might have wrangled that assignment. But risky, especially under the eyes of his Vulcan first officer, whom Nyota knows is observant to the point of being nosy. He follows the captain onto the bridge, his posture rigid: Mr. Spock, her former professor, and the only one on this ship clever enough to possibly guess her deception.

He looks directly at her, meeting her stare head-on, and she glances away, her eyes skidding off of his to focus on her hands. They aren't shaking, of course; she isn't so stupid as to lose her cool from something as innocuous as a look - but it's tempting. He has always had particularly intense eyes, dark and calculating in an angled face. And she has always been an idiot for noticing them, and wishing they'd land on her for more than her skill at morphology.

Nyota blinks once, hard enough to clear her head, and readjusts her earpiece, turning back to her work. Regardless of what pathetic (and dangerous) schoolgirl fantasies she has incubating in her mind, she has work to do, subtle words to concentrate on, a resistance to be fought.

 ****

. . .

 

Spock summons her to his quarters after alpha shift. Nyota is...not alarmed, not precisely, but wary. As of yet, he's an unknown quantity, and while her inner self is whispering _Could it be? Could he be_ \- the rest of her is cautious; he is merciless as only a man armed to the teeth and without emotion can be. She recalls seeing what was left of Nero when the Romulan's remains were transported to Sickbay. She is well aware of what Spock's capable of.

Here, in his quarters, he seems even more dangerous, for the mere reason that she's in his territory now. Not knowing what to expect, she keeps her fingers lightly on the slim knife holstered to her thigh, hidden by the drape of her skirt. Spock offers her ice-cold water, a Vulcan custom; she accepts, matching his polite gesture with an even smile. He sits and watches her drink it; the thought flashes through her mind that it could be poisoned - but nothing risked, nothing gained. She swallows, and is surprised when his eyes follow the bob of her throat.

"Your shipmates will expect me to take you as my woman," he says presently, steepling his hands and observing her over the tip of his fingers. "It is a façade we would do well to encourage; the fewer questions asked about your time spent in my quarters, the more likely we are to succeed with our plan."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Sir," she adds. He's gorgeous, and looking straight at her, but she can't trust him until he gives her the sign.

Spock arches one eyebrow and gives her a look that, for how little his face moves, delivers a truly astounding amount of scorn. "Lieutenant, do not take me for a fool. I am well aware of your placement in the Resistance; I am the person you have been communicating with."

Her lips part, and she allows her surprise to show on her face while her mind whirrs. A test, it has to be, or a trick - maybe he does this with all new officers, to see which ones will give themselves away.

Her fingers inch under her skirt, and slip the knife out of its sheath. If she goes for the eyes, jams the blade into his brain, she may have enough time to grab his weapon and slit his throat -

"I'm not going to sit here and let you accuse me of treason," she spits, shoving her chair from the desk and rising to her feet, pulse pounding in her ears and fingertips. Spock watches her for another moment, his eyebrow now tilted at an amused angle, then forms his fingers into a contortion only one person would know.

The adrenaline drains out of her system, and she sags back into the chair.

"Oh," she says. "Oh. I thought - "

"You covered your alarm admirably," Spock says. "This is your first mission, correct? I am impressed by your fortitude."

Nyota bites back a smirk. "Thank you, sir."

"We have information to share," he informs her, and she nods, remembering the two intercepted transmissions stored in a data chip embedded in her boot. "Would now be an optimal time?"

She hikes up her skirt and slides the knife back into the sheath, noting his eyes falling on the expanse of thigh she bares. She smiles slightly.

"It's a date," she says.


End file.
